


Fallen (Heroes)

by watanuki_sama



Series: Steeped In Sin [11]
Category: Common Law (TV)
Genre: Demon!Wes AU, Gen, Travis is a good partner, Wes pretends he's not sentimental but he totally is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: One sunny Saturday, for the first time since he started working for the police department, Wes takes a personal day.





	Fallen (Heroes)

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of my darling **warrenkoles** 's birthday!
> 
> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 01.20.18.

_“Only the forgotten are truly dead.”_   
_—Tess Gerritsen, The Sinner_

\---

One sunny Saturday, for the first time since he started working for the police department, Wes takes a personal day.

Wes, in his usual forthcoming manner, never bothered to tell Travis, so the first he hears about it is when the captain says, “Wes took a personal day, so you have the day off. Go make sure he’s alright.”

Which is code for _Go check on your partner and make sure this isn’t something we need to worry about_. Because demons don’t really need personal days, so this is a little bit strange. And as Wes’s favoritest human ever, it’s Travis’s duty to make sure Wes hasn’t gone off the rails.

Wes answers his door at the first knock, dressed in his darkest suit and the whitest shirt Travis has ever seen. Well, at least he hasn’t been kidnapped or anything. (It happens a lot more than you might think).

He looks Travis up and down, sniffs dismissively, and says, “You’ll do.” Then he disappears back into his hotel room.

Travis looks down at himself. Jeans, a dark Henley, and his leather jacket. Just his normal outfit.

“Do for what?” Wes left the door open; Travis steps inside. “Did we have plans you didn’t tell me about?”

Wes doesn’t answer. Travis finds him in the bedroom, tying a black tie around his neck.

“Who died?” Travis asks, because sometimes his mouth says things without any real input from his brain.

Wes pulls the knot of the tie tight. Not gonna lie, it kind of looks like he’s strangling himself a little. “Harold Kipley,” he says briskly, no more inflection than if he was ordering coffee.

Travis blinks. “Who?”

As professional and unruffled as ever, Wes sweeps through the door, not looking at Travis. “Come on, Travis, or we’re going to be late.”

“What?” Travis turns, stares at his partner’s retreating back. “Wait, Wes—are we actually going to a funeral?”

\---

They don’t go to a cemetery or a church. Instead, Wes pulls up in front of a tiny Craftsman. There’s a dozen cars parked out front, and the couple being let inside are in mourning black.

Travis still has no idea why they’re here.

“Wes?” He reaches out, tentatively touches Wes’s shoulder. “Who was Harold Kipley?”

Wordlessly, Wes pulls a piece of newspaper out of his inside pocket and hands it over. Travis unfolds the thin paper, scanning the obituary in his hand. Harold Kipley, age 96, survived by his wife Edith, three children, and seven grandchildren. Decorated war vet, proud businessman… Okay, but none of that explains why _they’re_ here.

“Okay, but who _is_ he?”

Wes continues staring out the window at the little house. “Just…someone I knew a long time ago.”

And he sounds perfectly composed, but then his eyes go black, and Travis knows it’s a lot bigger than Wes is letting on. Because Wes flashes his eyes all the time, little flashes when he’s annoyed or upset, but when they _stay_ black…well, he’s either incredibly pissed, or he’s trying to hide something. (There’s no better way to hide your soul than cover your eyes with midnight). Travis has seen Wes angry, and this ain’t it.

This Harold guy must have been _important_.

“Wes?” He tries again, gives Wes’s arm a little squeeze. “Who was Harold Kipley?”

The demon’s jaw tightens, and his eyes go return blue. “Let’s go,” he says shortly, snapping off his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

Travis tucks the newspaper clipping into his pocket and follows.

\---

There’s an old woman on the living room couch, supported by a redheaded woman similar enough in looks to be related. Edith, Travis presumes, and one of the grandchildren—she’s way too young to be the daughter of a ninety-year-old. Travis watches people walk up to the pair, offering sympathies.

Wes doesn’t go up to the women. He walks slowly around the perimeter of the room, studying the pictures on the wall. There are quite a number of them, photos of a smiling old man, of children and grandchildren and adventures. The evidence of a long, happy life.

Wes doesn’t say anything, simply walks the room, stopping in front of some pictures, moving right past others. He pauses for five minutes in front of one, the beaming old man holding a tiny baby wrapped in pink.

Travis still isn’t certain why they’re here, but he doesn’t ask any questions, just trails in Wes’s wake.

There’s another photo that catches Wes’s eye, a black-and-white wedding photo, grainy with age. Wes takes the frame off the mantel, peering at the blurred faces. The woman is wearing an old-fashioned dress, and the man is leaning on a crutch, one pantleg folded up, but they’re both beaming at the camera. Travis looks between the woman in the photo and the old woman on the couch, and sees the resemblance.

Before Travis can tell Wes that proper etiquette at a funeral does not include picking up people’s old wedding photos, a voice behind them says, “Can I help you?”

Travis turns, and bites back a grimace. The young redheaded woman is studying them suspiciously—or, more particularly, glowering at Wes. This is why you don’t go picking things up willy-nilly.

Travis smiles, his talking-to-victims face, gentle and sympathetic. “Sorry, my friend is just—”

A quiet gasp cuts him off. Edith Kipley has turned at the noise, staring straight at Wes.

“I know you,” she says, hardly more than a whisper.

Suddenly realizing something is happening around him, Wes finally looks up—and the redhead’s mouth falls open.

“It’s the man from the picture.”

Picture? What picture? Travis turns to his partner, opens his mouth to ask—

Oh. _That_ picture.

There’s another photo on the mantel, another black-and-white. The young man from the wedding photo is standing in front of a tent, wearing a muddy WWII uniform. He’s laughing at the camera, arm slung over a second man’s shoulders.

A man who is absolutely, unmistakably, Wes.

_“Just someone I knew a long time ago.”_

Seriously, would it kill Wes to give him a little more info to work with here?

The redhead and the old woman are still staring at Wes, a sort of blank shock on their faces. The one that says _I don’t understand how this is possible what’s happening—_

If either of them start to think about it, start to wonder how a man can look the same as he did seventy years ago, they might end up with _demon_ as an answer. It’s not a common phenomenon, but it’s not so uncommon that it won’t be a plausible answer, and if that connection is made then there will be screaming and panic and that’s really not fair to this grieving widow during a wake, okay.

“Wow!” Travis exclaims, a little too loud. He claps Wes on the shoulder. “You never told me you look so much like your grandfather, Wes!”

Wes blinks blankly at him. Travis cuts his eyes to the side; Wes follows the look, and _now_ he sees the second picture.

For a brief moment, Wes’s eyes flicker-flash black, but he’s turned away from the crowd—the only one who sees is Travis.

Carefully, Wes replaces the wedding photo. “Yes,” he says flatly, turning back to the women. “My grandfather.”

He couldn’t possibly be any less convincing, but these women are mourning and here’s a rational explanation laid at their feet. Travis can see them relax as they accept it. Of course—grandfather. Because of _course_ someone who fought in World War II couldn’t be standing here without having aged a day.

(After this, Travis is going to have a very long talk with Wes about what ‘pertinent information’ is and why it’s so important.)

Edith Kipley rises from the couch, moving slowly over to them, her granddaughter supporting her elbow. Wes watches her approach, as frozen as a deer in the headlights—Travis supposes he should be glad Wes is remembering to breathe right now.

Travis has been forgotten completely. He moves up beside Wes, offering his partner what comfort and support he can.

The old woman reaches up, lifting the picture down in shaking hands. “Harry talked about your grandfather so often,” she said softly, staring at the two soldiers. “He always went on about the man who saved him.”

Wes shifts, and Travis recognizes discomfort when he sees it. “I—” Wes catches himself. “My…grandfather didn’t do that much.”

“That’s not the way Harry told it,” the woman chuckles, eyes shining. “He always said everything we had—our house, our children and grandchildren, all the love we shared—he said none of it would have been possible without your grandfather.”

Wes is looking incredibly uncomfortable and a little lost, which is his default look when faced with too much human sentimentality.

Travis isn’t really certain Wes was supposed to say anything to that, but the silence is getting thicker and more awkward. He nudges Wes’s ribs with his elbow. Wes jumps, blinks dumbly at him, and Travis nods at the old woman. _Say something_ , he mouths.

Wes blinks twice, frowns. Then he turns back to the two woman and tells them, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Travis has heard Wes say that a hundred times when interviewing a victim’s family, but he’s never heard Wes sound so _sincere_ , like he actually _means_ it.

The old woman traces the faces in the picture. “Here,” she says, holding out the picture frame. “Take it.”

Wes flinches like she struck him. “I couldn’t—”

“Please.” She smiles despite her tears. “I have plenty of pictures of Harry, and this is your history too.”

She’s so much righter than she realizes.

Slowly, Wes takes the frame, cradling it to his chest like it’s something precious. “Thank you,” he murmurs, like that was the last thing he ever would have expected when he came here. “Thank you.”

As the tears start to trickle down the woman’s face, Travis takes his partner’s arm and leads them out.

\---

Travis offers to drive. For once, Wes lets him

They’re halfway to Wes’s hotel when Travis feels brave enough to broach the subject.

“So. Harold Kipley was a war buddy?”

“We were in the same unit,” Wes says vaguely, studying the picture in his lap. A smile curls one corner of his mouth up. “They called me ‘Angel’. I’m pretty sure Harold started that”

Travis snorts. “Seriously? Did he know? About you, I mean. Like, was it an irony sort of thing?”

“No, nothing like that.” Wes shrugs. “I wasn’t…I never got hurt, not really. They said I must’ve had the luck of the heavens on my side.” Again, that quiet, nostalgic little smile.

Travis waits a few minutes, lets the silence fill the car. When it’s clear that Wes isn’t going to volunteer anything else on his own, Travis asks, “So…you…saved his life?”

Wes scoffs a little. “The damn fool pushed me away from a grenade. I wouldn’t…it wouldn’t have…” He takes a breath, fingers tightening on the frame. Travis half expects the wood to crack—he’s seen Wes crunch concrete in his hands. But Wes is gentle with the frame, even when he’s upset.

Softer, he explains, “I carried him back to base. He lost his leg because of it, got sent home. And all he said was that he couldn’t let the unit’s lucky charm die.” Wes scoffs again, but there’s something surprisingly vulnerable in the sound.

Travis takes a slow breath. After all this time he likes to think he knows how to handle his partner pretty well, but there’s something about the demon getting all choked up that gives him pause, makes him flounder because it happens so rarely.

“You know,” he offers, “we could look up where he’s buried, maybe go visit…”

Wes shoots him an annoyed look, eyes flashing black. “That’s ridiculous. What good would that do? It’s not like he’s _there_.”

“Right. Of course, my mistake. That’s much too _sentimental_ for a big bad demon like yourself.”

“Damn straight,” Wes grumbles, leaning back on his seat. It’s a relief to hear Wes sounding a bit more like himself.

And if Travis notices the way Wes keeps running his fingers over the picture, or how carefully he holds the frame, he doesn’t say anything.

Sentiment, and all.

**Author's Note:**

> I think the thing that makes Wes different from a lot of demons is that he values humans, at least the ones he’s close to and cares about. I just have a lot of feels about demon!Wes and the humans he cares about ok.


End file.
